On the Long Route
by Squaresville
Summary: Soon to be fourteen, Buster Baxter wonders why his parents got divorced, and whether he should have left well enough alone. A resurrected fanfic.
1. The Little White House

Disclaimer: I think it goes without saying, doesn't it?

"I found something really interesting on the Internet last night," said Buster conversationally as he walked alongside Francine. The sunny summer's day was winding down as they walked along the sidewalk.

"Yeah?" Francine said, surreptitiously checking her watch.

"Yeah," he said. "Turns out, not only are aliens responsible for the disappearance of the Mayans _and_ the Lindbergh Baby, but they also kidnapped Tupac Shakur. There was a conspiracy to cover it all up, just like with Elvis. That's why Tupac comes out with new music videos every now and then. They film them in space, then they beam them to MTV."

Francine gave a derisive snicker. "And—let me guess—the aliens use Nazi gold or something to pay MTV to keep quiet about the whole thing?"

"Exactly!" he said. "Did you visit the Web site too?"

She tilted her head and gave him an uncertain stare. It was only a moment later when he cracked a huge grin.

"Just kidding!" he cried. "Oh man, you really thought I was serious?"

Francine rolled her eyes as they continued down the sidewalk.

"Sorry," he said through stifled laughter. "It's just so much fun with you, Francine; the looks on your face sometimes…"

"Glad I could amuse you," she said dryly. She checked her watch again. "I'm thirsty. I think I'll drop by The Sugar Bowl and get a soda before the game. You in?"

"Sure," Buster said. "That is, if you think all the guests will have arrived by the time we get there."

Francine stopped cold. "Guests?" she said nervously. "What guests?"

"The guests for my surprise birthday party, of course." He was clearly enjoying this.

Francine spluttered. "Surprise party? What-- Why would you think _that_?" she asked. Rather than look straight at Buster, she looked past him and focused on two young girls riding their bikes along the opposite side of the street. "Your birthday's not even until Tuesday," she said defensively.

"Yeah, but I'll be at my dad's for my birthday, so you're having my party tonight instead of when I get back. It was cool of you guys to want to surprise me; telling me it was going to be on a different day was a nice touch." he added sweetly.

This time Francine did look at him. It was clear from the expression on her face that she knew what Buster was talking about, yet she stood in silence as if refusing to admit it.

"Oh come on, Francine, I know we're not going to the park for a pick-up basketball game with Arthur and Jenna. Arthur made you do his dirty work: calling me up, asking if I wanted to go to the park… He knows he's a bad liar."

Francine abandoned pretense. Her stance of defiance was replaced with a look of amazement. "How did you—"

"Figure it out?" supplied Buster. "Please, Francine. For one thing, you always bring the ball to games, but you don't have one with you." He began counting the rest on his fingers. "Two, you're wearing flip-flops. I've never known Francine Frensky to ever wear flip-flops during a basketball game—not even just for fun. Three, the sun's going down; there's not enough time left for a decent game. And four, we're taking the long route to the park, which just happens to pass The Sugar Bowl first. How _convenient_," he added using his best Church Lady impression.

Francine stood in silence for a moment, mouth agape, and then a smirk played across her face. "Okay, you win. We're throwing you a surprise party. You need to stop watching so many detective shows, you know," she said finally. "So what, I guess you want me to hand you a wipe now, Columbo?"

Buster laughed. "Columbo doesn't use wipes," he said as they picked up pace again.

As they walked on, Francine began an animated description of how she and Arthur had been planning together for the past week.

"I hope you appreciate all we've done for you, Buster, 'cause it wasn't easy, especially with you hanging around. And we almost didn't have a cake; Mr. Read has two big gigs this weekend, but Arthur begged him to fit it into his schedule. It's supposed to look like your head or something. Arthur said you'd remember it," she finished breathlessly.

"Yeah." Buster smiled at the memory.

"Anyway, as soon as Muffy heard what we were up to, she wanted to take over everything," Francine continued. "She insisted that we have your party in some hotel ballroom, hire a DJ and have crudités platters—whatever those are—catered. But I told her those kind of things are really more for a girl's sweet sixteenth party, not a guy's fourteenth. And—"

"Hey, they're selling my house!" Buster blurted.

"What? Hey! Where are you going?"

Francine saw a blur of white as her companion ran past her. Buster was now several yards ahead. She gave chase, flip-flops slapping against her heels. Moments later, she was standing beside Buster. He had come to a stop in front of a short, white picket fence. Beyond the fence lay a stretch of land, upon which grew several shady trees. A smallish cottage stood in the middle.

Buster seemed to be mesmerized by the structure as he looked on unblinkingly.

"What are we staring at?" Francine asked.

"My house," said Buster. "This is where I used to live, remember?"

She thought for a moment. "Vaguely," she answered. "Back when you were really little? I think I remember coming here once for your birthday."

"Yeah, it was my fourth birthday." He paused. "It was the last birthday I had before my parents… you know, before they split up."

There was tension in his voice. He placed a hand upon the "FOR SALE" sign edging the sidewalk and fell quiet. Francine watched as he gazed at the house, whose stark-white features were lined with colorful splashes of asters and lilacs. It was a lovely home, she thought.

"An old couple bought it," he broke the silence, "after Mom and I moved into the condo. I used to ride my bike past here sometimes, and I'd see them out gardening or playing with some kids. I bet they were their grandkids. I wonder where they are now if they don't live here anymore…"

"Buster," Francine began tentatively, "why did your parents divorce? I mean, I've never heard you say."

Buster shrugged. "I don't know why. I haven't talked to them about it in a long time."

"But you've asked them? What did they say?"

He sighed. "You really don't get a lot of straight answers from your parents when you're four, do you? Just the same dumb lines: 'Adult problems are complicated, sweetie,' or 'you'll understand when you're older.' Sometimes you get both those sayings together."

"Oh my God, you haven't tried to discuss it since you were _four_? But aren't you curious—just a little?"

He shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked incredulously. "If it were my parents, I'd want to know. It would eat away at me, day and night—just gnawing away at the pit of my stomach—"

"Alright, Francine. Yeah, I'm curious, okay?"

"And?"

"And what?"

"Well, they said you could ask when you were older. You're nearly fourteen, for heaven's sake!"

"Yeah, well… as I got older, I finally understood what divorce meant. What it _really_ meant, I mean: Your parents can't live together because one of them did something that hurt the other one. Badly. I guess I figured if I didn't ask, then I wouldn't have to hate one of them for the rest of my life. I could just stay kind of p.o.-ed at _both_ of them for tossing me around like a common household beach ball. At least I'm used to that." He gave a bitter laugh.

Francine put her hand on his shoulder. "It might not be that awful," she said comfortingly. "You'll never know unless you ask."

He nudged a dandelion with the toe of his sneaker. "Then I guess I'll never know," he said simply, "because I don't plan on asking."

He looked at Francine. "And besides, what difference does it make, really? It wouldn't change the outcome." A peaceful tone had crept into his voice now. "I'm okay with not knowing. Really," he added.

The subject was closed. Francine looked at her watch once more.

"C'mon," she said, leading Buster away from the lot by the arm. "You're going to be late for your own birthday party. And try to act surprised when you get there, okay?"

He nodded and gave a small smile. "Okay. And I promise I won't tell Arthur you told me about my face-cake," he said jokingly.

But as they continued walking, Buster couldn't help stealing a look at the tiny white house, just one last time.


	2. Breakfast with Bitzi

Buster's stomach groaned loudly. It was a signal that he should quit daydreaming and seek breakfast. Although he had been awake for a while now, he had chosen to linger in the lazy comfort of his bed, reliving his party from the evening before, instead of heading to the kitchen. Squinting from the sunlight that streamed through the window, he sat up. The tips of his ears just scraped the bottom of the top bunk; he had grown several inches in the past six years and was still growing. If he did not ask for a new bed soon, he was liable to suffer a concussion.

Moments later, he was surveying his closet. He had packed most of what was not already dirty and spilling over the rim of his hamper, and so there was not much left from which to choose. Not that Buster was choosy to begin with when it came to clothes. He selected a random jeans/tee combo and thought again of how much fun his party had been, even if he had known about it. It had been great to spend time with his closest friends before he left Elwood City.

When he began fumbling underneath his desk, searching for his missing left sneaker and briefly wondering how in the world he could have lost something in a closed room in just a few short hours, his thoughts drifted elsewhere…

To Francine. It was hard to shake the conversation he had had with her in front of that little white house. He was not sure why he had been willing to divulge what he thought to her, especially since he had never mentioned it to anyone else, not even Arthur. For some reason, he found Francine much easier to talk to about serious things, almost comforting, like a mother that could beat you in a game of one-on-one basketball. Sometimes he could even swear she was psychic, a notion which scared him slightly.

One of these instances had occurred yesterday. Something Francine had said: _It might not be that awful._ He never would admit it to Francine, but that was the exact phrase he had used to reason with himself whenever he pondered his parents divorce, whenever he got close to bringing up the subject to his mom or dad.

_It might not be that awful._

He would always counter his own argument: _If things really _hadn't _been that awful, then why'd they get divorced at all?_ It never made sense to him. After all, how many couples go splitting up because they are just so happy they can't stand it? None as far as he knew and he knew loads about divorce statistics. No, something awful had happened, Buster was sure, and so he figured that it was best he did not know what it was. However, the blissful-ignorance approach had never managed to kill completely his curiosity, but he supposed that was just the detective in him fighting to get out.

He discovered his sneaker underneath the comforter that hung halfway off his bed and spilled onto the floor. He dressed hastily, remembering why he had bothered to get out of bed in the first place.

Buster was happy to meet a myriad of sweet and savory aromas upon walking into the kitchen, his hunger increasing with each step.

"Morning, Mom," he said cheerfully, taking a plate from the cupboard.

Bitzi Baxter sat at the breakfast table, poring over the Sunday edition of _The Elwood City Times_ with a red pen in her hand, circling any errors she might have missed. Obsessive as her hobby seemed, Buster knew this was how his mother liked to spend her Sunday mornings. She was so utterly engrossed in the activity that she only took notice of her son's presence when he spoke.

"Hi, sweetie," she said lovingly.

Buster gestured to the newspaper that took up half the table. "Found anything I can send to Jay Leno?" he asked jokingly.

She shook her head. "So far, I've found four typos, an incorrect byline, and two grammatical errors, but no phrases carrying certain… connotations." She said the last word with disgust.

Buster shrugged. "Oh well, maybe in the wedding announcements." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "So, what's for breakfast?"

"Denver omelet and banana bread French toast, but—"

"Wow, Mom. Have I told you lately that I love you?" he said brightly. Going-away meals were always extra special.

Bitzi smiled. "But you _should_ be asking 'What's for lunch?' It's nearly noon, hon." She surveyed him closely. "Are you feeling all right? You look a little peaked."

Buster had already begun shoveling food in at a steady pace. "I feel great,' he said between mouthfuls.

"Are you _sure_?" She placed a hand to his forehead. "Because, you know, you don't have to leave tomorrow if you're feeling sick."

Buster understood. He gently pushed his mother's hand away. "Mom, please," he began. "You do this every time."

"Do what, dear?"

"Try and get me to stay home whenever I stay with Dad for a while. I'm _not_ going to be sick, but even if I was, I'd be okay. Dad knows how to take care of me."

His mother looked taken aback. "Oh, I don't doubt that, Buster. It's just…" she left the sentence hanging a moment. Judging from the expression on her face, Buster thought she might be choosing her words carefully. "I'm going to miss you so much," she said finally. "I'll have no one to fuss over, no one to keep me laughing." She patted his hand from across the table.

"I'll be back before you know it," Buster said bracingly. "Three weeks isn't all that long. I've been gone longer," he added, resuming his shoveling method of eating. This seemed to satisfy his mother, for instead of pressing further, she neatly folded her paper and began clearing her own dishes.

"Buster," she said over her shoulder as she stood at the sink, rinsing her coffee mug. "You do understand that I'm not trying to keep you away from your father, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know," he said.

"Because I would never do that. You deserve to spend more time with him than you actually do. He's a good father—a good father and a good man."

"Then why did you divorce him?" The words were out of Buster's mouth before he realized what he had said. He immediately winced, not because he heard a hollow _plunk!_ in the sink, indicating that his mother had dropped her mug at the unexpected question, but because he had just started a conversation he had been avoiding for years. He heard the faucet stop, and when he unscrewed his face and opened his eyes, his mother was pulling out a chair and sitting across from him.

"I was wondering when you'd finally ask me."

"I—I wasn't asking _you_ exactly, just wondering out loud. On accident. It was one of those, uh, rhetorical questions. That's what it was. So, really, you don't have to answer at all." He hoped this was convincing. To his surprise, she looked amused.

"I understand. You think I still don't want to tell you."

No, _that_ wasn't it! He was trying to think of another way to backpedal out of the conversation. Maybe he should pretend to faint or choke; she would forget her own name if she thought that he was in danger. However, it was too late; she had begun speaking again.

"Your father and I…_discussed_ it, whether or not we should just tell you, and we finally agreed to let you come to us, and we'd be ready whenever you were." She looked like she was forcing a small smile.

"But I wasn't…" Up to this point, Buster had been willing to fight tooth and nail to keep the conversation from progressing, and now he could not seem to remember why. After a decade of wondering and imagining scenarios, answers were at his fingertips. Why had he been trying to keep them away? He could not remember. It seemed silly, really, now that he thought about it. Moreover, she had made it sound so darned intriguing…

"You _did_ say I'd understand when I got older," he said cautiously. He looked at his mother and found that a sedate expression had replaced her smile. She inhaled, almost bracingly, as if she were preparing to give a rehearsed speech.

"It happened almost ten years ago…"

To be continued in chapter three…


	3. Cobb Patterson

_1999_

Silence was golden for Bitzi Baxter, home alone and thinking of nothing at all except combing over her article for the fifth time before e-mailing it to her editor. Up for a possible production editing position, she did not want to leave any stone unturned. Immersing herself in her work also helped her nerves. Her writing seemed to be one of the few things she could fix these days, and it gave her a small sense of control.

She knew, however, that this peaceful existence would not last much longer. Bo would be home anytime now, replacing her golden silence with thick tension apt to smother her. She could not pinpoint an exact reason for their seemingly constant arguing; it had been going on for so long now.

She supposed his job had a bit to do with it. He often was gone at length, now more than ever, she suspected, just to be away from home. She imagined him whiling away an entire day in an airport lounge or smoking in a nearby bar, the company of inebriated strangers welcomed over hers.

Perhaps it was a bit of a personality class as well. The spontaneity and adventurous nature she had fallen for so long ago once brought balance to her composed and practical world. Now those attributes, almost painfully, grated her nerves. Not that she was all that easy to get along with. She knew that her perfectionism and planning got to him. How caged he must feel. In a way, she really could not blame him for wanting to take the job.

Bo's most recent impulse had sparked their biggest argument yet. Rick Shanahan, a friend of Bo's in New York, happened to be retiring from his job, and his job happened to be personal pilot for Cobb Patterson, one of the world's biggest business magnates. Rick had recommended Bo as a replacement and arranged a meeting with Patterson during Bo's recent trip to New York. The two hit it off, thanks to their shared love of classic rock. (One of Bo's favorite ways to open a conversation had always been to ask people if they liked the Rolling Stones. It had worked on _her_.) Before the hour was up, Bo had landed the job and had agreed to move the family to New York in a month's time.

There was just one small problem. Bo had never discussed this with her. She had dropped her favorite coffee mug when he had shown up last week and announced, "We're moving to New York!" The promise of fewer hours and better pay had not been enough to sway her. They had argued for hours after she replied with "Absolutely not," only stopping once they had realized that it was past time to pick up Buster from preschool.

Of course, they guarded their son from their arguments as much as possible. Though a separation was viable, there was no need to worry him until it was definite. As Bitzi had thrown on her jacket, Bo had begged, "Just think about it. Give it a week, will you, Bitz?" She had said she would and left it at that as she went out the door, her mind already made up.

The week was up now. Bo had been out of town, still serving what was left of his time with the airline. When he got home—and that should have been four hours ago—he would expect an answer.

She heard his car in the driveway. Bitzi looked at the clock at the bottom of the computer screen. _He's never even remotely on time_, she thought, mentally adding to his list of offenses. She heard the front door close. "You there, Bitz?" he called, out of sight. It was his version of "Honey, I'm home." He had been saying it for years. Today, however, it annoyed her. _My car is parked outside—where does he _think_ I am?_

Bo appeared in the doorway and leaned on the frame. "There you are," he said, surveying the room. "Where's Buster?"

Bitzi concentrated on the computer screen, wishing not to look at him just yet. She clicked the SEND button on her composition. "He's on a play date at Arthur's. Jane should bring him back in an hour or so."

"Oh. Good." As if that granted him permission, he took a couple of steps inside the room. "So, you've thought about it?"

"Yes. I've been thinking a lot." She bowed her head, bracing herself, mustering the strength.

"And?"

"My answer is still no."

"Bitz…"

She managed to rise from her chair and face him. "I just can't see how you think this is a good idea, Bo."

"And I can't see why you have such a problem with it. Come on, it's a chance at a new life. A better one."

"Have you forgotten I also have a career? I can't just pull up stakes and leave."

"But there are, what, hundreds of publications in New York. _The New York Times_, _Newsweek_—talk about a career. And what about the great private schools? And Buster will be exposed to different cultures and the arts."

"What about the crime rate, huh? What about lunatics in the subway and—"

"Alligators in the sewers?"

"Don't make jokes. Elwood City is by far a safer place for a child to grow up, and the schools aren't that bad. There's a tightly knit sense of community here, not to mention all Buster's friends. Those things are way more important to a child's wellbeing than the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

Bo opened his mouth to counter the argument, but he hesitated. They had had this argument a week before, she remembered. Why rehash it?

"Are we in a deadlock, or what?" he said.

"Yes, I think we are."

She watched him pace in silence for a moment.

"What am I supposed to do, Bitz? I've quit the airline. Rick is officially off the clock on the thirty-fist. I've committed to this job—Patterson's counting on me."

"And God forbid you disappoint Cobb Patterson." Bitzi shook her head. "I suppose what you should do then, Bo, is start packing. You have a lot of things to get to New York before the thirty-first. Your LP collection alone ought to take an entire day."

"We're talking divorce now?"

"I don't know. I think so. A separation, at least."

"That's what you want. Really?"

She wrung her hands. She had tried to prepare herself mentally and emotionally for this, but it had not made things easier. "You know our relationship is nothing like it was. And Buster can't stay in the dark forever. What I _don't_ want is to keep living like this, on each other's case about every little thing, wondering every day if we are going to make it. You can't honestly say _you're_ happy, can you?"

Bo sighed. "I guess not." The defeat in his voice stung. She had not expected that. "You're sure about this?"

"I'm—I'm staying. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too, Bitz."

They both stood in silence, avoiding each other's gaze. Finally, "I'll be back later," he said evenly. "I want to say goodbye to Buster."

"That would be good," she said, wiping away tears.

Without another word, Bo turned on his heel and exited the family room, exited the little white house, and left Bitzi alone again in silence, though this one was far from golden.

_Present Day_

Byron blinked. And blinked. He sat for a long while, staring at his half-eaten omelet and French toast. Flabbergasted, that was the word. All this time he had wondered; now, he need not wonder anymore. He looked up at his mother and said the only words his mind had been able to form. "That's _it_? Are you kidding me?"

"Why do you say that?" She looked nervous.

"All these years I've imagined all these horrible things and I find out that you broke up because of a _difference of opinion_?"

"Oh, sweetheart, we had problems long before that. New York was just the straw that broke the camel's back."

"Would it have killed you to move to New York, Mom? For the sake of the family? We could have been well off."

"Well, not exactly, dear. After your father moved to New York, Patterson was indicted on insider trading charges. He was convicted and went to jail, and your father went back to the airline."

"Oh. Well, that still doesn't change the fact that you guys got divorced for the stupidest reason ever!" Buster stood and stormed out of the kitchen.

"Buster, wait." Moments later, he reappeared. "Oh, good," Bitzi said. "Now, just have a seat and we'll talk—"

"I'm just coming back for this," Buster interrupted, snatching the rest of his French toast from his plate. "For the road."

With that, he left, his mother calling after him once more.

To be continued...


	4. The Sugar Bowl

"This is my favorite summertime gift from Daddy," Muffy Crosswire gushed, holding a purple and silver object across the table for Arthur to see. He and Muffy had managed to scurry into the first available booth inside the Sugar Bowl, which was exceptionally crowded on this Sunday afternoon.

Arthur examined Muffy's gift. It looked like a rectangular mirror incased in plastic, nothing special. "What is it?" he said.

"The Portolex Infinity, silly. The latest in their Screen Touch series." She placed the phone on the table and brushed the mirror with her fingertips. The mirror illuminated to reveal a bright color-screen photograph of Jude Pendleton, the so-called British heartthrob Arthur remembered from one of the _Henry Skreever_ movies.

Muffy giggled unabashedly. "My wallpaper. J-Pen is just so… As I was saying, this phone has everything—QWERTY touch-screen keyboard, MP3 player, GPS, stock portfolio applications, you name it. For an extra two hundred dollars, there's even a blood glucose monitoring option. But since I'm not diabetic, it seemed a bit frivolous."

"Wow." Arthur did not know why a thirteen-year-old girl would need half those things.

"I know, right? And it comes in Orchid, my favorite shade of purple. If I could fall in love with an object, it would be this phone."

"Muffy, can't you give that ridiculous Jude Pendleton picture a rest? The guy looks like he's angry and needs to use the bathroom." Francine had made it to the booth, having waded through the crowd, trying to balance the three drinks she held in her hands. "Thanks for helping me with these, by the way," she said, plunking drinks in front of Arthur and Muffy. "I'm being sarcastic."

"Of course we _could_ have helped you, but then someone would have usurped our booth, if you'd have wanted that on your conscience."

"Sorry, Francine, I should've helped," said Arthur. _It would've beat looking at a picture of JPEG, or whatever his name is_, he thought. "I wonder why this place is so crowded today. Is there a festival in town?"

"Nah." Francine said. Orange soda in hand, she took a seat next to Arthur. "I think people are just getting their summertime ya-yas out before school starts. Alan said it's been the same way at the ice cream shop."

Muffy unwrapped a straw and stuck it in her cherry limeade. "I, for one, can't wait for school to start."

"Really?" Arthur and Francine said in unison.

"Oh, yes. So much exciting stuff is happening this year. I'm planning all sorts of fun parties. Then there's the _Deadlight_ movie—the one J-Pen's starring in—followed by the last _Deadlight_ book this spring…"

"In other words, nothing that actually has anything to do with school," Francine said, smiling. "You had me worried for a second."

"I think eighth-graders have a semi-formal dance sometime this year. _That_ counts. Plus—best of all—Chip is moving back home! Well, not _home_ exactly, but he'll be in Elwood City, and I'll get to see him more often."

"Oh, that's right. Catherine told me," said Francine. "I bet now that he's all done with school, it's time for him to join the family business."

"Um, not exactly," said Muffy.

"Why not? I thought Chip was going to follow in your dad's footsteps."

Arthur thought Muffy looked uncomfortable. She glanced over her shoulder, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "It's…kind of a long story," she said.

Before she could explain, however, Arthur caught a familiar figure at the front door. It was Buster, wearing an expression close to the one Arthur had seen in the Jude Pendleton photo.

"Buster, over here!" Arthur called, but Buster had already spotted them and, despite the throng, made his way toward them with purposeful strides.

Muffy perked up. "Hi, Buster. Yesterday's party was cute and all, but it could have used an antipasto assortment. Call on me if you want to step things up for your next bash."

Buster was too busy glaring at Francine to hear her. "Devil woman," he said. "You just had to plant your seeds of evil in my brain, didn't you?"

Arthur shared a confused look with Muffy. Francine, taken aback by Buster's outburst, took a moment to respond. "Excuse me?"

"I did it. I asked Mom about the divorce—accidentally, thanks to you—and now my life is over." Buster sat in the booth beside Muffy and put his elbows on the table, his ears drooping slightly.

"You asked? You said you didn't plan to..." Francine frowned. "Oh, no. What happened?"

"You know how you said it might not be that awful? Well, you were right. It definitely _wasn't_ that awful."

Francine looked heartened. "Hey, that's good, right? Wasn't that what you were afraid of, hating your mom or dad because one did something horrible to the other?"

"Yeah, but it turns out what happened between them was so _lame_, I have no choice but to hate them both."

Arthur listened intently as Buster told the three of them about how his parents had argued over the Patterson job all those years ago. He had never heard his best friend speak this freely about his parents' separation. Arthur, too, had been curious as to the reason for the divorce, but he would have never brought up the subject to Buster.

"And then Dad just packed up and moved out. Just like that. All because Mom didn't want to move to New York with him. She was afraid I'd get eaten by alligators or something."

"Your parents probably didn't break up _just_ because they disagreed on New York," Francine said bracingly, looking like she was trying her best to ignore the alligator comment.

"Francine's right," said Muffy. "It sounds like there was some pretty deep stuff going on with them, just like in an opera, or on _One Tree Hill_."

"But if arguments were their only problem, then why didn't they try to fix things?"

Muffy pursed her lips and thought for a moment. "Sometimes, when two people can't get along, being apart… Even if it's not what you want, it just makes things easier," she said soberly. She sounded like she was speaking from experience. Knowing that her parents were still married, Arthur found this odd.

Francine reached across the table and placed a hand on Buster's forearm. "Don't take this the wrong way, Buster, but I think you'd be upset no matter _what_ the reason for their divorce was. I've never been in your situation, but I'm sure it would hurt like heck no matter how you sliced it." Buster stared down at the tabletop. He said nothing, but he exhaled loudly through his nose. Francine pressed on. "Maybe you should focus on the positive stuff. You're parents get along pretty well now, right?"

Buster nodded. "They talk on the phone a bit. Every time I go to Dad's he asks me how Mom's doing. When I get back, she asks me how _he's_ doing. It's like they really care."

"See? There you go. Do you know how many divorced kids' parents can't stand each other?"

"I've read statistics," he said.

"Then you know how awesome what you have is. Your parent's don't want to kill each other—that's _something_. Be grateful."

"Well…"

"You should go home and talk to your Mom, Buster," said Muffy. "Believe me, she's probably just as upset."

"Arthur, you've been quiet this whole time," said Francine. "Anything you'd like to add?"

Arthur had been so preoccupied, playing spectator, taking it all in, that he had forgotten he was a part of the conversation. "Uh, I was just thinking," he said, "If you'd have moved to New York, we wouldn't have been best friends."

"Aw. I think you just triggered my Hallmark moment gag reflex," Francine said, and they all burst out laughing, the tension lifting from the group.

"You really know how to make a guy feel loved, Arthur," Buster said, smiling for the first time since he had walked into the Sugar Bowl. "But I also feel like a jerk. I can't believe I yelled at Mom. I _will_ go talk to her. First, though, I think I'll have milkshake. Or two. I didn't finish my breakfast and I'm starving." He rose from the booth and dodged various people on his way to the counter.

Muffy sighed contently. "Good job, everyone. Now, want to see what _else_ my phone can do?"

To be continued…


	5. Late Night Call

It was nearly midnight. After checking for the fifth time, Bitzi was certain that her son was asleep. Quietly, she walked to her bedroom and locked the door. She sat down on the edge of the bed and contemplated the nightstand phone for a while before picking up the handset. Drumming her fingers nervously, she counted. Two rings. Three rings and still no answer. After the fourth and final ring, a cheery recorded voice came across the line: "This is Bo Baxter. Sorry I couldn't make it to the phone, but I'll get back to you if you leave me a message."

_Beeeeeep._

Bitzi heaved an aggravated sigh. "Why is it, Bo, that you're never around when I need to talk to you?" she began. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. It's been a trying day. Listen… I just called to warn you that Buster finally asked about us this morning. It was rough for him at first—for the both of us, actually—but I think he's okay now. I thought you should know, just in case."

She hesitated for a moment. "We have such an intuitive boy, Bo. You do remember what we agreed to tell him, don't you? I need to know that we're on the same page, that you're going to back me up."

Her voice became strained. "Look, I know you don't agree with me, and you think talking about it would be good for me, but I just couldn't—"

Was she imagining things, or were those footsteps out in the hall? "I have to go now, Bo," she said in a rushed whisper. "I'll call you again soon."

She hung up, hastily unlocked the door and peered into the hallway. Nothing was there. Silently shaming herself, she walked the length to Buster's room again and eased the door open. The soft light from the hallway shone like a spotlight through the opening, onto a still sleeping Buster as he lay on the bottom bunk, one foot dangling over the edge of the bed.

Bitzi let out the breath she had been holding, thankful to see her son right where she had left him. It had been years since she had repeatedly sneaked into Buster's room at night, just to check. A simple act that had once been comforting now felt underhanded and intrusive.

She wanted to leave, but she stood transfixed by the sight of her only child. She wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, for although he had the appearance of a boy in his early teens, Buster also never looked more like the little boy he had once been. It was an odd, sad feeling. _My only one. Soon you'll be grown up._

She crept quietly to Buster's side, knelt down and planted a kiss on his forehead, careful not to disturb him. She made her way back to the hallway as quietly as she had come and stole one more glance at her son before slowly shutting the door.

The end.


End file.
